


Trouble

by ibonekoen



Series: Clint is a Little Shit [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:12:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibonekoen/pseuds/ibonekoen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the door swung closed behind Barton with a quiet click, Phil exhaled a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. That kid was going to be trouble, he knew it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> AU look at how Phil might've recruited Clint to SHIELD, I guess you could say. Blame a dream I had >_> and friends encouraging me to write out said dream, lol. I don't own Clint or Phil or SHIELD or anything related to Marvel. I'm just playing in their sandbox. Unbetaed, so any mistakes are my own.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’re in for a real treat.” The ringmaster swept his top hat in a half-circle, indicating the crowd in front of him. “You’ve come here to see the World’s Greatest Marksman, and he’s got a brand new trick for you tonight.”

Agent Phil Coulson settled into his seat, a box of popcorn in hand, just as a young man rode into the tent on a white horse. The young man wore a purple tank top and black leggings, which were both made of skintight lycra, and a quiver of arrows and a bow rested on his back. He brought the horse to a halt beside the ringmaster and raised his hand over his head, waving to the crowd.

The ringmaster gestured toward the young man. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Clint Barton! Along the outside edge of the center ring, you’ll see a series of targets. Clint here is going to wow you by hitting the targets while riding his horse _backwards_ around the ring.”

A gasp of awe swept through the crowd, and Phil’s lips quirked in a slight smile as he heard a few muttered “There’s no way he’ll hit every target.”

The ringmaster smirked as he listened to the murmurings. “And did I mention he’d be _standing_ on the horse’s back?”

Phil’s eyebrows lifted as the crowd around him “oooooh”ed. His intel on Barton indicated that he was a trained marksman, so he’d had no doubt that he could make the shots while riding the horse, but standing up... If he could still hit the targets without losing his balance, Phil would be very impressed.

As Barton stood up on the horse’s back and turned his back toward the horse’s head, Phil leaned forward in his seat a little, anticipation written on his face. Barton pulled his bow over his head and then drew out an arrow, notching it into place. He shifted his weight, planting his right foot forward, and he nodded at the ringmaster, raising his bow.

The ringmaster slapped the horse’s rump and then stepped back as the horse took off in a gallop. Barton’s hand moved in a blur, drawing the string back and letting an arrow fly, then grabbing another arrow from his quiver. Phil’s eyes followed each arrow, and his eyebrows lifted higher and higher with each bulls-eye.

Barton didn’t even waver on the horse’s back, each shot truer than the last, and by the time he hit the last target and spun around, dropping down onto the horse’s back and pulling in the reins, he was smirking, and he raised his bow over his head, seeming to revel in the crowd’s cheers.

Phil joined the applause, though his clapping was a little more restrained. He waited until Barton rode out of the ring, blowing kisses to the crowd, before rising to his feet and heading out. He didn’t need to see the rest of the show — he’d come to the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders specifically looking for Barton, after all.

He made his way around the main tent to the group of trailers set up fifty feet away from the circus. Finding Barton’s trailer proved to be easy, thanks to the decal of a hawk with the words ‘World’s Greatest Marksman’ splashed underneath it on the side of one of the trailers. He adjusted his tie and walked up the steps, knocking on the door.

The last thing he was expecting was the door to be answered by a teenager. From his seat in the audience, Barton had appeared older, but standing in front of him was a seventeen, eighteen-year-old at the most.

Barton arched an eyebrow, flipping dusty blond locks out of his eyes with practiced ease. “Yeah?”

Standing on the middle step placed Phil right at eye level with Barton’s crotch, and his face grew warm as he realized that lycra left little to the imagination. He jerked his eyes upward as he remembered Barton’s youthful face, and he coughed. “Clint Barton? I’m Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, and I’m here to talk to you about a job.”

Barton snorted. “Jeez, that’s a fucking mouthful. But, no thanks, man. I’ve got a job. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the World’s Greatest Marksman.” He smirked and raked his fingers through his hair, drawing Phil’s attention to the small silver hoops hugging his earlobes.

Phil nodded a little. “I see. Even if I could guarantee you a job with a better salary and health benefits? Unless you’re telling me the life of a carny is really glamorous.” He tried not to smirk at the hesitation that crossed Barton’s face. “I can guarantee you a steady paycheck and meal. At least give it some thought.”

Barton rubbed his hand over his chin, a thoughtful look playing across his face. “So, Strategic Homeland Info Whatsit? What is that anyway? Sounds like government.”

Phil pursed his lips and nodded. “We’re a secret branch of the government, yes, but it’s exciting work for the greater good.”

Barton perked up, grinning. “Secret, huh? So, you’re, like, a spy?” He licked his lips and raked his eyes over Phil with such blatant interest that Phil could feel a blush creeping into his cheeks.

Phil coughed into his fist and then adjusted the knot of his tie. “Something like that, yes.”

Barton’s grin widened. “Yeah, okay. Sure. Being a spy might be kinda fun. When do I start?”

“There are some training sessions you’ll have to go through, but I think you’ll go through them quickly.” Phil held out his hand, smiling. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Barton.”

Barton smirked and clasped Phil’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “Oh, call me Clint, please.”

~*~*~

Phil had waited outside while Barton packed his belongings and then waited again while he went into the ringmaster’s tent to talk to him. Afterwards, they headed to the motel Phil had checked in, and Barton wrinkled his nose as he took in the nondescript room. It was cleaner than some of the dumps he’d stayed in, but he’d expecting something a little more swanky.

He dropped his duffel bag on the foot of the bed. “So, that steady paycheck you promised must not be very big, huh?”

Phil shrugged. “It’s big enough. I just happen to appreciate minimalism.”

Barton smirked as he glanced toward the queen-size bed. “Just the one bed, huh?”

Phil licked his lips as he watched Barton toe off his sneakers and then flop down on the bed, bouncing a little on the mattress. “It’s just for the one night. Tomorrow, we’re headed to New York.”

Barton grinned, tucking his hands behind his head. “New York? As in City? Sweet. Never been to the city itself.”

Phil watched him wiggle his socked feet and felt his mouth go dry as his eyes inadvertently traveled up Barton’s jeans-encased legs. Those jeans seemed even tighter than the lycra, which Phil didn’t think was physically possible. With Barton’s arms raised over his head, the shirt rucked up a little, exposing a strip of skin just above his waistband, and Phil coughed, averting his eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll love the city.” He removed his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair at the small desk, and then he loosened his tie. “If you’d be more comfortable, I can sleep on the floor.” He inwardly cringed as he said it; he was by no means an old fart, but sleeping on the floor just wasn’t as much fun as it had been back in college. At the very least, he’d be waking up to a stiff neck and aching back.

Barton’s grin widened into a devilish smirk that sent tingles down Phil’s spine, and he shook his head. “Nah, I’m cool sharing the bed as long as you don’t kick me in the middle of the night.”

Phil coughed. “No worries. I keep to my side of the bed.”

Damned if Barton’s smirk didn’t morph into a leer. “Oh, I never said you had to stick to your side of bed.”

Phil wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning red and busied himself with unbuttoning his shirt. He heard the rustle of denim sliding across cotton, and he looked up to see Barton standing.

Barton jerked his thumb toward the door. “I’m gonna go check out the vending machine. You want anything?”

Phil shook his head. “No thank you. Don’t stay up too late. We’ve got an early start ahead of us tomorrow.”

Barton laughed lightly. “Don’t worry, Dad, I won’t.” He smirked and then grabbed the room key off the dresser where Phil had laid it earlier, moving out the door..

As the door swung closed behind Barton with a quiet click, Phil exhaled a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. That kid was going to be trouble, he knew it.

~*~*~

Phil finished undressing and managed to fall asleep long before Barton returned to the room. He stirred slightly as he felt the bed shift, but he didn’t awaken fully, rolling over to settle onto his back. He’d kept his undershirt and boxers on; there was no reason to strip down further than that. He was perfectly comfortable.

“Hey, Coulson, you awake?” Barton’s voice was barely above a whisper, and Phil ignored him, hoping the kid would take the hint and go to sleep himself. That didn’t seem to be the case as Barton let out a soft, sing-song “Coullllllsonnnn.”

He felt something tickle his nose, and he reached up to give the offending object a half-hearted swat. Whatever it was felt soft and silky and easily gave way to his swat. He heard Barton’s light laugh, and the next thing he knew, the covers were being pulled aside and a solid weight settled onto his hips. He felt his pillow dip a little as something came to rest on it, and when he opened his eyes, he was treated to the sight of Clint Barton leaning over him, one hand bracing himself against Phil’s pillow as the other rested against the headboard above them, framed in the light from the street filtered in through the curtains.

“What are you-” He felt Barton’s hips roll against his, and he bit back a groan as he felt his body respond. “Barton.”

“Clint. Call me Clint.” Barton leaned down, lips brushing teasingly against Phil’s, tongue flicking out, and he was ashamed to admit that he lifted his head off his pillow, chasing the taste of citrus lime soda and barbecue potato chips.

Clint — _Barton_ — let him catch him and chuckled against his mouth as he licked his lower lip, hips still moving in that slow gyration against Phil’s, and Phil let himself get lost in the rhythm for a moment. Then he forced himself to pull back, ignoring the whine Barton let out and the graze of the kid’s teeth across his bottom lip.

He blew out a breath and let himself fall back down onto his pillow. “What are you doing, Barton? Go to bed.”

Barton laughed again and flipped his hair back out of his eyes, his hips never ceasing, even when Phil moved his hands down to rest on them. “Come on, Coulson, I’m not an idiot. I saw how you looked at me. I know you think I’m hot, and that kiss just confirms it.” He licked his lips and gave a casual, one-shouldered shrug. “Besides, you’re not the first older guy to want this from me. You’re just the first one who hasn’t come to me with dollars in his hand.”

Phil’s eyes widened and Barton’s hips stilled for a fraction of a second, his own eyes widening in panic, as if he hadn’t meant to let that slip. Then his eyes darkened and he bent down, planting both hands on the bed as he captured Phil’s lips in a hard, bruising kiss.

Phil didn’t recall seeing any mention of that in his intel, and he made a mental note to ask Barton about it later. For the moment though...

Later, he would chalk it up to a moment of weakness that allowed him to return Barton’s kiss, to slide his arm around the kid’s waist and pull him against his chest, to lick into Barton’s mouth and tease his tongue. Or he might even call his motivator compassion, born from the sense that Barton needed to know he was wanted just because of _him_ , not what he could provide.

Either way, aside from his arm looped around Barton’s waist, and his hand resting on the back of the kid’s neck, Phil made no other movements, not even rocking his hips up to meet Barton’s downward thrusts.

Barton broke the kiss first, though he didn’t retreat from Phil’s space. “Come on, come on, why aren’t you...” he felt Barton pant against his cheek, and then the kid was burying his face against Phil’s neck as his hips snapped forward in increasingly jerky movements.

Phil felt the telltale shudder wrack Barton’s frame, accompanied by a warm burst of breath against his neck, and even though his own dick throbbed with want, he ignored it, soothing Barton — _Clint_ — through his orgasm.

When he was spent, Clint rolled off of Phil, flopping onto his back on the opposite side of the bed. The only sound that filled the room for a few moments was Clint’s heavy pants easing into slow, steady breaths. When Phil thought Clint might’ve fallen asleep, he sat up and slid out of bed, freezing as he heard the sheets rustle. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Clint roll onto his side, eyes half-lidded in an attempt to appear awake.

“What ‘bout you?” he asked, his face looking so earnest that for a moment, Phil found himself sliding back into bed.

Then he shook himself, knowing that was a bad idea. Clint was going to be working under him — oh god, no, not _under_ ; that presented far too many mental images that his aching cock was all too happy to respond to — and they couldn’t afford any awkwardness.

“Don’t worry about me. Just go to sleep, Barton.” Against his better judgment, he leaned across the bed, pressing his lips against Barton’s in a gentle, almost chaste kiss.

After taking care of himself in the bathroom, Phil cleaned up and washed his hands, drying them on a towel. Then he returned to bed, a soft smile playing across his face as he saw Clint curled up on his side, clutching his pillow to his chest. He slipped into bed, pulling the covers up over both of them and then — again, against his better judgment — curled up to the kid’s back, draping an arm across him.

Yep, the kid was definitely going to be trouble, all right. Phil had a feeling it was just his kind of trouble too.


End file.
